Chapter 46: DD2 Chapter 040 – Old Hatreds

Arilla was out of her depth. While she had always enjoyed stories about cunning generals and tactician kings, she was self-aware enough to know that she would never be counted amongst them. She had no formal position in the war council beyond her connection to Typh, and her lack of experience in such matters was telling. The warrior struggled to keep up with the often antagonistic conversations that went on in parallel with the complex plans that were made, picked apart, and discarded over faults she could barely even recognise let alone fully comprehend. Just the initial debates regarding the locations suitable for latrine trenches had contained enough fine detail to make her head spin. By the time they actually got around to discussing the combined assault on Rhelea, Arilla was already exhausted and battling a growing headache.

Typh’s decision to allow the tent to fill up with the heady stench of pipe smoke and stale alcohol certainly hadn’t helped the warrior maintain her concentration. The stress of knowing how many lives hung in the balance made every decision feel weighty and ominous. It was a constant challenge for her to resist the escape promised by the myriad of mind-numbing vices on offer. Human servants flitted gracefully between high-backed chairs with trays of powders and bottles of liquors. They were nonhuman-made one and all, exotic substances tailored to even more exotic palates brought with the arrival of the dragon’s army. Arilla desperately wished that she had some great insight to share, some master plan that would cut the projected casualties down from the tens of thousands to the hundreds, but it was honestly all that she could do to stay in her seat and politely decline each offered drink.

Gods help her, but she was so thirsty, and no matter how much water she drank, her throat felt dry and cracked every time she was called upon to speak. Arilla had hardly been educated to a high standard, and while she had taken to reading up on Astresian history during the past three months, it had only been three months. She didn’t know why Typh had insisted she attend these meetings; with the number of nonhumans present it wasn’t like the dragon was in need of an additional friendly face. 

Perhaps it was because of her coming duel with Lord Traylan. After she fought and killed the old noble, she would be named the new Lord Traylan and everything would change. 

The orphan in her couldn’t get over how perverse it was that she was finally going to be rewarded with a family, one she had killed the last three trueborn members of. She had yet to discuss this with Typh, but the dragon was certainly aware of Arilla’s looming inheritance. With the arrival of the sovereign dragon’s army, she had released all the adventurers from her service except the rogues. In exchange for regular handfuls of their dwindling supply of gold, the rogues now fed her information about every little plot that was cooked up inside the campgrounds. It was almost impossible that the details Arilla had omitted surrounding her duel with the old noble hadn’t reached Typh’s ears. 

Arilla didn’t even want Rhelea, and she certainly didn’t want it to come between her and Typh now that they were finally together again. She knew why she hadn’t mentioned it. The prospect of Lordship scared her, not because she didn’t think she could rule, but because she was scared that protecting her home might one day mean refusing the woman she loved. She had already chosen Rhelea's citizens over a comfortable life with the dragon once, if she was forced to choose between them again would she be strong enough to choose Typh? Was choosing her even strength, or was it just a more insidious form of weakness?

Now that Arilla finally had what she wanted, she was petrified to lose it, and every social instinct she possessed told her that Lord Traylan hadn’t lied or exaggerated when he promised that his title would be the death of her.

Instead of focusing on the building dread that grew in her stomach whenever she thought about the future, the warrior turned her attention towards the heated and often slurred arguments yelled over the almost raucous noise of the tent. Raised voices, more often than not projected in inhuman tones and pitches, all insisted that their subtle variation on the plan was the only one that could end in victory. Arilla didn’t understand the tactical implications involved; to her uneducated ears the different strategies all sounded more or less identical to one another. But she did know people, and for all the fur, scales, and bark that Typh’s officers had, at the end of the day that’s what they were—people. 

They had been talking in circles for over a day now while they failed to make any real progress in formulating a plan that everyone could all agree on. The crux of the problem was that the heads of the various factions that made up the dragon’s coalition did not get along. The army was united, but only in their deference to Typh and their shared loathing of both humans and the Monster. In addition to those old hatreds, the ratlings hated the wargs, the wargs hated the woodlings, who in turn hated the fungoids, who hated the kobolds, who then hated earth sprites, and absolutely everyone hated the goblins, who themselves hated the humans more than anyone else. It was a mess, but it might have been salvageable if Rhelea’s nobles didn’t seem to delight in antagonising everyone by playing them off against each other.

Still, at least now everyone could sit down and share a drink together without immediately resorting to blows, which was a marked improvement on where they had been the previous morning. Arilla held her head in her hands and leaned forwards in her chair, while a carafe of rich ruby-red wine passed her by. The long furred warg to her side, whose name she couldn’t pronounce, accepted the offered drink from the attendant on duty. 

The warrior watched out of the corner of her eye with amazement as the bestial creature—more wolf than man—paused in his tirade against leading his pack though the west gate, to thank the servant-tagged human, who then went on to pour drinks for the remainder of the people sat at the table.

That can’t be it… can it?

The dragon seated at the head of the table caught her eye and smiled. Typh’s gold flecked irises pulled the warrior in, and a pleasant warmth spread from Arilla’s stomach, rising all the way up to her cheeks. Her need for a drink to steady her nerves evaporated in an instant and she was struck by how badly she wanted the woman.

“I think that’s enough for today, we can resume this in the morning,” the dragon said from atop her gaudy throne of sculpted gold. Her words evoked a mixture of relieved and exasperated sighs, but no complaints arose from cutting the planning session short. “Arilla, Halith, please stay for a moment.”

The tent flap opened allowing the stuffy air to escape into the cold, while representatives of every species bar one, quickly shuffled out and away from Typh’s domineering presence. Arilla knew without checking that Lord Traylan’s proxy for the day, Lady Arusal, would be quick to flee the dragon's camp and cross the half mile of snow that separated it from the human one to the east. Since Typh’s hard bargaining the previous day, the old noble had yet to emerge from his tent. His mood had hardly been good beforehand, but the prospect of handing over his city in all but name to the dragon may have pushed him over the edge.

Given his depressive state, Arilla would be worried about his ability to aid them in the long term, but the man had spat on her offer of amnesty, and demanded her head in exchange for saving the country he was honorbound to serve. She would duel him, and she would win. Arilla knew that she should be more nervous at the prospect. She was outmatched in both level and experience, but she was a Noble Slayer, and the class that lived in her chest practically purred in delight at the mere thought of ending the man.

“You look like you want to say something,” Typh said, speaking to her once the three of them were finally alone.

“Are you dragging these meetings out so we can drink together and make merry?” Arilla asked.

“No, the meetings will last until our preparations are ready, but everyone drinking together in the meantime is an added benefit. The sooner we learn to get along the easier things will go,” the dragon responded. “Halith, how are we actually doing?”

“Things are proceeding smoothly. The rogues still under your employ have mapped out a large portion of the catacombs, and it is as we feared. The kobolds remain confident that it is possible, but it will cost us. The more accurate we are the better our chances, but…” the ratling trailed off.

“But the more time the Monster will have to grow. I know. And the weapons?” Typh asked. 

“Bar a few holdouts who frankly don’t trust our steel, runic blades have been handed out to almost everyone who wants one. We’re ready, or at least ready enough,” Halith said. 

“You don’t think we should wait until the rogues are done?”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“We only get the one chance, we can’t afford any mistakes.”

 

“The kobolds say they can do it and I trust their judgement.” 

“And I trust yours. Very well, we attack tomorrow,” Typh declared.

“I don’t understand, I thought the plan was still up in the air?” Arilla asked.

“Silly girl—”

“Halith, be careful,” the dragon warned.

“Of course, Lord Sovereign,” the ratling apologised with a deep bow of her head, before turning in her chair to better face the warrior. Arilla stared into the beady rat-eyes of the furred woman who was draped in flowing silks and heavy silver, and suppressed a sigh. She couldn’t get a read on Halith at all. She had hoped that the ratling would have a tell, a twitch to her whiskers or a wag of the tail, but the creature remained totally foreign to the warrior even after all this time. “The plan is largely in place, while the minutiae are left to be determined, it is largely irrelevant. Once we enter Rhelea, it will break down, and as Lady Arusal put it, become a total-fucking-disaster.”

“I thought that was why we moved away from that plan…” Arilla muttered.

“No. There is no way around this problem, only through,” Typh explained. “We don’t have the luxury of choosing the location, we barely get to choose the time of our assault. A lot of people are going to die, and there’s nothing any of us can do to stop it. The original plan is what we are going with. Four columns, one to each gate, with the goblins and the bulk of adventurers going below. It doesn’t really matter who goes where, the same fight has to be fought.”

“Everyone you send into the catacombs will die in droves,” Arilla responded, feeling numb from the grim certainty of the fact.

“The adventurers we’re sending down there will stand a decent chance at survival, but yes, the goblins accompanying them would be extremely lucky to survive. I know it’s harsh, but it's the most important fight there is, and they have the numbers and are well suited to dark tunnels… Do you even care? I thought you hated goblins.” Typh asked.

“I do hate them—everyone does—but…” the warrior began, “it isn’t right. They came all this way to help us, and for us to use them like that… it’s wrong.”

The dragon and the ratling shared a long intense look which only ended when Typh broke out smiling.

“I told you she was different,” Typh gloated.

“Perhaps you are right about her, but I’m not convinced about the others,” Halith replied. “It would be far simpler to just kill them all.”

“For now? Sure, but in a few months we’d be bleeding ourselves against the Nauron army rather than enlisting their aid. We need the humans if we’re to survive,” the dragon explained.

“They’ll never listen to you,” the ratling warned.

“You’re right, but they’ll listen to her.” Typh said, pointing at Arilla.

“Me?” the warrior asked, feeling her heart flutter beneath the intensity of their twin gazes.

“After we’re done here, she’s going to kill Lord Traylan for the city. For us,” Typh stated matter of factly. “She gets us into the highborn circles where we can prove the benefits of working together. With her as our envoy we can persuade the humans to help us prevent another Monster from ever spawning.”

“For what? A decade or two at most? If they listen. If we cull the human population down to something more manageable, then we can take our time pleading our case to the Elder Council and maybe they’ll see fit to restore the Great Wards for us,” Halith retorted.

“Something more manageable? You sound like an elf,” the dragon accused. “Regardless, we can’t achieve a cull on such a scale, not in the time we have left, and even if we could, I wouldn’t stand for it. We’re in this together. For whatever reasons they may have, the Elder Council has given up on us. They couldn’t even be bothered to inform us of their decision, let alone the why of it. They just left us all to die. We are on our own, and for all of their ignorance, humanity covers the length and breadth of Astresia. We need them as much as they need us.”

The ratling looked deeply uncomfortable at the thought, and from the way she glared at Arilla, from her seat, the warrior knew that this was not going to be the last conversation they would have on this matter.

“Great. Now if you two are done declaring me your only hope, and then talking about me as if I’m not in the room, can we please take a moment to explain my role in these meetings? I can be your envoy without knowing the business of war,” the warrior asked, feeling her class rumble with anticipation when she chastised the noble dragon. 

Typh paused and shared another long look with Halith before she finally deigned to speak.

“I need you to learn how to lead my army, with Halith as your second in command,” the dragon explained.

“What! Why? Shouldn’t you be leading? Don’t you have millennia worth of memories guiding you?” Arilla asked.

“I do. Which is the problem,” Typh sighed. “In my ancestors' memories we were never nearly so weak. A single sovereign dragon could carve a hole into Creation ten miles deep and twice as wide if they weren’t careful. Monsters could rip the life right out of the creatures they came into contact with, and their spawn took on shapes right out of my worst nightmares. I’ve shared some of those visions with you so you know what I’m talking about.”

“I do,” the warrior shuddered, not needing to say another word.

“What I’m getting at is that my instincts are all wrong. The lessons learned from before the Sundering simply aren’t relevant anymore. They keep telling me that the soldiers in my army are little more than children, and that the idea of facing a Monster with a host consisting of second and third tier creatures is suicidally stupid. I can still grasp the larger picture but… whenever I try to look at the details, a thousand voices, each wiser than my own, tell me that everything I’m doing is wrong,” the dragon explained. “I have so much to unlearn before I can be useful, and I fear that we just don’t have the time.”

“Whereas I know nothing,” the warrior responded.

“Exactly, you’re a blank slate. You can learn to lead far faster than I can, and more importantly, I trust you,” the dragon said, placing her small hand on top of Arilla’s.

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“I feel the need to remind you that I was leading just fine in your absence,” Halith interjected.

“You were, but a human in charge will put the rest of her species at ease. It will make them more likely to listen to Arilla at the negotiation table rather than seeking to execute her for being a traitor to her species,” Typh said.

“The soldiers in your army won't like it. I don't like it,” the ratling snarled.

“Maybe, but they’ll have time to adjust. We’re talking months if not years before I hand over the reins to Arilla. For this fight we’ll keep our forces as separate as we can; Halith will take the ratlings through the north gate, Lord Traylan’s forces the west, Braknaghs’s wargs the south and the east we’ll leave to Tumbling-Gravel and the smaller tribes.”

“Tumbling-Gravel has the imagination of a rock, even for an earth sprite. With them in charge the eastern front will be a disaster,” Halith warned.

“Perhaps, but the richest in Rhelea live on the eastern side. It contains the most sparsely populated districts by far. The fighting will be the easiest there,” the dragon replied, dismissing the ratling’s concerns with a wave. “Now if you excuse me, it’s getting late and I have to go sit in a dark tent and debrief my rogues.”

Typh rose from her throne, and paused in exiting the tent for long enough to plant a soft kiss on Arilla’s cheek, before she was gone from the room, leaving the warrior alone with the visibly frustrated ratling. The silence between them was immediately deafening. Halith just sat there in her chair, her short claws digging into the hardwood while she glared daggers into the warrior’s eyes.

“Listen, I understand that you don’t like humans. I’m not sure I do half the time, but assuming we survive these coming days, we’re going to be working together for a long while, so we shou—” Arilla began.

“You’re not good enough for her!” Halith snapped.

“I’m sorry?” the warrior asked, flatfooted by the intense levels of anger that practically poured off the furred woman before her.

“I said that you are not good enough for the Lord Sovereign,” the ratling repeated, a little calmer this time.

“And how is that your business?”

“Because I had to pick up the pieces when you left her. You used her to get your revenge and then you abandoned her. Just like you’re using her again to save your petty little kingdom.”

“I’m not using her, I love her,” Arilla said, earning herself a snort of derision from the ratling seated opposite.

“You don’t even know what she is, you can’t begin to comprehend the majesty of a sovereign dragon. To think for even a moment that you could imagine yourself worthy of her touch…”

“She’s a woman. Typh deserves to be loved.”

“Typh is so much more than that,” Halith snapped, before letting out a low sigh. “She is right. The Elder Council has abandoned us lesser species to die. But she—she is the only member of a council race to care enough to try and save us. Even though we don’t stand a chance she is fulfilling her duty to us all.”

“And I want to help,” Arilla offered.

“You want to help yourself, you’re human, you’d never choose us over your own kind. Time and again, it is your species that is the problem, and time and again the rest of us suffer because of it. The Great Wards didn’t break themselves, it was your kind who doomed us all.”

“I can hardly be held responsible for that,” the warrior admitted. “But do you want to talk evil, Halith? Typh told me how your species keeps the lines pure, how you breed those rat ogres and warrior caste soldiers. What is that if not evil?”

“It is necessary for our survival, because of what you did to us.”

“Evil’s evil, Halith. Excuses may help you sleep better, but they don’t change anything.”

The two women stared into each other's eyes for a long time. Arilla sensed the burning hate that existed behind Halith’s gaze, completely unaffected by her recent outpouring of vitriol. The warrior supposed that she shouldn’t be surprised, thousands of years of enmity didn’t just go away overnight because a woman with a pretty face told you to get over it. Arilla still hated goblins even if she felt sympathy for what was about to be done to them, so she couldn’t blame Halith for despising her, even if it felt unjustified.

A ratling dreg rushed in, thin and weedy by comparison to the warrior, craftsman, or even mage castes that Arilla was used to seeing in the dragon’s camp. The small creature scurried towards Halith and placed a tightly wrapped scroll in front of her, before retreating with placating squeaks in the ratling’s native tongue.

The former general, who now spoke in meetings for only her people, slowly read the short missive and smiled wide, displaying her two rows of very sharp teeth.

“Well human, it would seem you’ve been granted an opportunity to prove me wrong. There’s been a murder.”

***

“Why did you do it?” Arilla asked, keeping her words as cold and dispassionate as she could for her growing audience while she addressed the adventurer before her. The man was wrapped from head to toe in thick skill-forged chains, which was a good thing—the iron-ranker had taken down well over a dozen bronze soldiers and nearly thrice that in pewters before he was finally stopped.

“Because they’re goblins. Little raping shits. I’ll do it again if you try to saddle me with any more of them,” the ranger replied, his broad grin unwavering on his bearded face.

“For the record, that is a myth. While goblins aren’t keen on romance, so long as you keep your farm animals and pets secure, it is not an issue. But what makes you so certain that you won't face punishment for your crimes?”

“My crimes? Hah!” the man laughed. “I should be charging you a chalkoi for each ear, but I’m a generous man so I’ll let it slide.”

“That was before,” Arilla explained. “I know you’ve heard it, but Lord Traylan has suspended all bounties against sapients within his territory and—”

“Aye I heard. It’s madness. There are a lot of children in the campgrounds, cant have them so close to monsters, even if they are tame enough to help us retake Rhelea,” the ranger interrupted.

“So you crossed the half mile to get to this camp, and then began killing goblins and ratlings, because… the children?” Arilla asked.

“No. Don’t make me out to be soft in the head. I did it because you want to send me below with those things. I’ll do it, but not with goblins watching my back. They eat people—those lucky enough not to be bred—and that’s only after they’re done torturing them. They’re a blight on Creation, and it's insane that you trust them at all.”

Arilla set her mouth into a firm line. This was a complication she could do without, especially on the eve of a battle, and doubly so when the man in question was unfailingly popular with the other humans in camp as all iron rank adventurers tended to be. It didn’t help that the ranger was merely voicing a sentiment held by many, herself included if she was being honest, but his attitude was forcing her hand.

“I have to let them kill you for this. You understand that, right?” Arilla asked.

“Hah! You’ve got balls on you for sure, Dragonrider, but let’s cut the shit shall we?” the adventurer suggested.

“Why not.”

“I’m iron rank. You need me, those grass-stains that I killed aren’t worth me blind-drunk on a bad day. I’m easily more valuable to you than a hundred of them and you know it. I’ll take whatever slap on the wrist you're offering, but if you want to retake Rhelea then you’ll let me and mine do as we please. Ain’t none of us happy to be saddled with monsters for allies.”

“I see…” Arilla trailed off, while her eyes scanned the tired faces of those present. Once word had gotten out, people had flocked to the edge of the dragon’s camp to watch the sentencing, knowing it for the precedent that it was. Representatives from every nonhuman race all stood in attendance, along with most of Rhelea’s nobility and more than half of the iron rank adventurers. Silently they watched and waited for her judgement, no one offered even a single word in the man's defence, for everyone but the accused seemed to know that the alliance couldn’t stand if adventurers could kill nonhumans with impunity. 

She wished that it was Typh making the decision, but while she held no formal title, people still remembered who she was. Despite Halith’s hostility—which was by no means unique amongst the nonhumans—they still deferred to her, treating her voice as if it was the dragon’s.

The man—Eirme, she vaguely recalled—was forcing her to choose between the fate of Rhelea, and Terythia, possibly even Astresia by extension, or him. She hated it, but what was one solitary adventurer’s life compared to all that? Her mouth was dry as she said the words, and she couldn’t help but remember how months ago, she had once complained that a single chalkoi wasn’t nearly enough to get high-level adventurers to take the threat posed by goblins seriously.

Times had changed, and Eirme was too slow to change with them.

“Turn him over to the goblins, they lost the most people so let them recoup as many levels as they can,” she ordered.

She would have loved it if the goblins took him away somewhere to be mercifully cut into by however many blades the goblins decided to split the experience between. Unfortunately, the vicious little fucks either had no appettite for that, or perhaps they too wanted to set a precedent of their own.

No sooner had she said the words, than a procession of green-skinned creatures started to creep forwards, out from the dark corners of the camp. With [Slayer’s Sight] Arilla had seen them waiting, but she’d underestimated both their quantity and their rage. They surrounded the ranger, scores of them filling every available space. One by one, their teeth flashed yellow in the torchlight, and without even bothering the remove his chains, the slow moving tide of green tore into the man, devouring the murderer alive to the steadily growing sound of his screams.

It was not fast. Rangers tended to have a decent amount of vitality, and Arilla knew better than most how much abuse an adventurer’s body could tolerate under the right circumstances. While Eirme was wrong about everything important, he was correct that goblins knew how to torture a man, and with such an esteemed audience, they made damned sure to demonstrate their collective prowess.

Arilla stood motionless and watched. Trying to ignore the comparisons that came to mind between Rolf’s and the goblins’ respective styles. To look away would be a disservice to the man she had sentenced to die, even if she knew it would save her from tonight's bout of nightmares. By the time it was over, the nonhumans in attendance seemed oddly elated, almost disbelieving that such a thing had just happened, whereas the humans who had stayed for it all, held expressions that promised trouble come the morning.

The warrior let out a low tired sigh. Gods help her but she needed a drink.

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